Titles are the hardest part.

I am sittin on this couch, laptop ontop of mylap. Again.

I have four different Word documents pulled up, each with clipped paragraphs of things I'm trying to find in my head. Four Beginnings. Words words words words. I leave them alone for now.

I used to live in a place called Glenwood. Between our apartments were hallways, and in my hallway, sat a typewriter-- abandoned. Can I take this? I can. I did. Writers should have typewriters of course. We've never gotten personal though, me and my typewriter. I wonder if it has given up on me.

My keyboard types double e's sometimes.
Emily once asked me what was symbolic about my use of thee.
"Oh. I just mean the," I said.
Funny how that happens, this friend wondering about my intention,with not a thing meant by it.
Its funny because all the time people are complaining about symbolism. The nagging question: "What if Nathaniel Hawthorne was just writing about a rose bush, and thats it?! How do you know its more than that..."
And then, I freak out inside.
Because, of course, Nathaniel Hawthorne was referring to my father and the way I had to rise up from the dry-soil foundation he was to me. Of course, duh. Then I stop freaking out. Because it doesn't matter if Nathaniel Hawthorne realized he was talking about my Dad, as long as I feel it.
(But thee? Nope, I just didn't proofread.)

Emily left for China today. I snuck a package to the MTC at 4 in the mornin on account of I know the security guard. "Dang," Brooklyn says. "We OWN this town."

Jonathan Brimhall is here.
I'm goin to pick up my friend Dave from the store. Poor Dave, it's snowing and he doesn't have a car.
"How 'bout you pick me up on Friday?" Jonathan says.
He is always like this. It makes me fiesty and mean-- he says this is because I am crazy for him.
He says there is obviously unresolved tension between us.
I am shocked by the fearlessness with which he hits on me.
I tell him this.
He responds in Danish, and informs me,
that I would blush at the translation.
How should I react to this? How?

Rapid windshield wipers give me anxiety.

I am listening to Dave Matthews because he is quiet and blurrrambling in my ears... just enough for my thoughts to calm and align, but not enough to change their origins. The best part about Dave Matthews is that you haven't heard all of his songs. No matter how long you listen, there is always another version he sang one time in Oregon, altered by rhythmatic genius or drunken stammor, that was never sang again. I don't care how many bumper-sticker album-covers you have in his honor. You don't really know him.

The word potent is annoying.

There is a shirt in my closet-- its kinda pink... a little orangey. I don't like pink, but I never get rid of this one shirt, and I'll tell you why. Some days, this shirt feels right. And on those days, no other shirt works for me. Not really. This odd phenomenon comes around every few months. Today was one of those days. I wore a little headband and baggy jeans. Hello, I am five.

The texture of a fig newton trips me out.

My Mom told me I was birthed mid-conversation. Yep, I just don't stop. I don't. I was most likely befriending the amniotic fluid. It never asked me to stop. One time, my Mom did. "But I just have so much to say!" I told her.
Story of my life. I should be studying, but I can't until I get all this out.
And what did it mean?
Tonight, these words were from the surface.
Remember the four beginnings? I'm digging for the rest of their voices. I can't find them though, unless I take off the top layers of my mind. Then, when we align, each core shows its face. Fore cores. Words words words words.

"Hear ye indeed, but understand not; and see ye indeed, but perceive not."
Isaiah 6:9